I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day through
The radio plays music softly in the background, the peaceful backdrop creating a stark contrast to the scene before me.
It's been a hell of a few days.
In that small cafe
The park across the way
The children's carousel
The chestnut trees, the wishing well
Gone are the intravenous drip bags, rubber tubes, and needles, replaced a day ago by blankets he can scarcely stand to have touch him, a damp rag compress which receives far fewer objections, and a vomit bucket I am eternally grateful for.
I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
He's been alternating between shivering and sweating for the past two days, despite the help on his road to recovery from the three now-empty addictol canisters, but he's become impossible to predict today, perspiring and trembling at the same time—groaning in a pain that I can't treat him for, because damn him, most of his 'chem cocktails' had included med-x, and his body simply can't handle any more right now.
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
He's asked me to leave a few times—begged me to, even—saying I shouldn't have to see this, shouldn't have to take care of him when he's like this. Even Nicky told him I wouldn't be anywhere else, and that he should know better, but the response just seemed to make John even more irritably miserable.
I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I've stayed by his side, excepting the few hours yesterday when Charon had actually demanded—I couldn't believe it, but he absolutely refused to back down, to Nicky's mild amusement—that I sleep, and Nicky took over for me more than willingly as I had a nap on the tan couch with a pillow and blanket dragged out for me to use, the only compromise to sleeping on an actual bed Charon would accept.
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
It's not the first time I've seen or even assisted in nursing someone through these exact same symptoms before, it's just the first time I've had so few resources to actually help the sufferer with.
Nate had come back from the front lines with more than just the head trauma that'd rendered him deaf; he'd also arrived at the VA hospital with a severe psycho addiction. Fortunately, there'd been a lot more medicine and medical personnel to hand back then, and his recovery from addiction, while slow, was not nearly as physically strenuous as John's is proving to be. The hardest part had been having patience with getting him home, and changing his cold compress every half hour while we waited for him to sweat the psycho out. 'Modern medicine' and helpful nurses had taken care of the rest.
What a difference a few centuries and a nuclear holocaust make.
John's finally managed to fall asleep, despite his aching muscles, sweaty skin, and uncontrollable tremors. I rest the back of my hand gently against his cheek, trying to get a sense of his temperature; the last thing he needs to deal with on top of all this is a ghoul's usual temperature issues. But his skin, while clammy with sweat, is no cooler than my own, so I change his compress and stand, snagging my cigarette pack from the table and heading to the balcony with a tightly heaved sigh.
Nicky detaches himself from the corner he's taken to occupying—when he's not on the couch, or taking care of John—and saunters over to John's side, replacing me while I take a much-needed smoke break.
I offer him a grateful smile as he passes me.
It's... well, it's about the extent of our interactions over the past few days.
His visit to Amari, to 'exorcise Kellogg' had... not gone well. Despite a valiant effort on her part, the good doctor couldn't find anything on Nick's hard drives to eliminate. Even a scrub of his memory banks, restoring everything from the latest backup, taken right before the Kellogg memory dig, revealed nothing out of the ordinary.
It seems Kellogg is a literal ghost in the machine.
It's made things between us... stressed.
He doesn't want to risk hurting me if Kellogg were to take over, and I... I don't want to turn to him and see that horrible glint in his eyes again.
It's not good.
I miss him.
But I'm also every bit as afraid as he is.
John's been sensing the tension between us, but I've kept quiet as to the reasoning behind it. Not fair to pile that on top of him while he's still recovering. After, when he's regained his strength, I'll... we'll tell him, together.
I hope.
Charon watches in silence as his Mistress cares for her ghoul lover, doing everything she possibly can to keep him comfortable and improve his condition. While her nursemaid skills are fairly impressive to witness, it is the darkened circles under her eyes that concern him the most.
He knows that without intervention, she will work until her body forces her to sleep, if it means she has helped someone. He's seen it happen more often than he cares to admit, in the short months since she became the holder of his contract. It was the only reason he'd dared insist upon her slumber the previous day.
He simply couldn't stand to watch it happen again.
His trainers would've been horrified at his insubordination, not to mention this... attachment he's developed to what still only amounts to a slave owner.
His owner.
Despite how little she resembles any slave owner he's ever met, it is still the truth of the matter.
Strangely, he does not find solace in the thought, where he normally does. There is usually a perverse comfort in the solid understanding of what he is, of what his employer is. But it is distinctly absent, here.
He rolls his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the stone of discomfort that's settled between them now, but it does nothing to alleviate his malaise. A soft sigh of frustration issues from him, and when he sees her adjourning to the balcony, snatching her cigarettes along the way, he splits himself from the wall and joins her.
The terse exchange between her and her synth lover is another cause of friction in their general situation, and the uncertainty surrounding the mechanical man like a cloud of despair is suffocating.
It's a relief when they reach the terrace, the slightly fresher air reeking more of booze and piss than vomit, but it's still an improvement over the thick tension just behind the door.
He's belatedly reaching for the rumpled pack in his rolled up sleeve when she deftly lights two from her own and offers him both to choose from. He re-rolls what little he'd managed to unroll of his sleeve and plucks the closest coffin nail from her fingers, slipping the filter between his lips and dragging a satisfyingly thick cloud into his lungs as he picks at the sleeve, straightening it fastidiously.
The fussiness attracts her attention, and she leans back against the metal railing at the side of the balcony and beholds him; one arm crossed under her chest, the other elbow resting on its fist, cigarette lifted delicately to the side as she nibbles her lip distractedly, eyes slightly narrowed.
He pauses and looks her over searchingly, curious why she persists in her observation of him. It's not the first time she's simply watched him for an extended period before, nor would it be the first time she's left him with no explanation as to its cause, but he finds he does not wish to leave things as they lay, this time.
"Why do you watch me so?"
Her eyes snap to his, features blanching then coloring softly peach beneath the wasteland tan of her cheeks. Despite her fluster, her eyes stay to his, steadily and without hesitation. "Does it bother you?"
He breaks eyes contact and finishes straightening the folds of his sleeve, righting himself and taking another drag from his cigarette. "No. But it is unusual for my employers to take such interest, beyond any initial inspection. You seem to be stuck in a near-endless loop of that initial inspection."
She snorts and looks out over the edge of the rail, down at the currency exchange station, flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette absently. "Maybe I am," she murmurs, even his sharp hearing barely catching the hushed sound escaping her lips.
"Is there something you wish to speak to me about? Perhaps you need to alter a behavior or tactic of mine?" he offers, hoping the olive branch will get her to release her grip on her private thoughts for once.
Sharp eyes dart up to meet his, brows furrowed over them in obvious concern. "No, Charon; it's... you're fine. Why, do you want to change something?"
He taps his ash away and shakes his head. "Not unless you wish me to, Mistress."
She utters a heavy sigh and falls silent for a time, hardly even bothering with the lit smoke between her fingers. Eventually, she shakes her head and looks away, sucking one final drag down and flicking the cherried butt away from anyone below them. She flits a glance to his cigarette, but make no further move to leave, instead continuing to look him over, as if studying him to determine his life's worth.
She waits until he flings his own spent butt in the same direction she'd tossed hers before she stands from the railing and takes a single step toward him, eyes on his as she nears. She comes to a halt less than a foot from his shoulder, tilting her head back and to the side, resuming her study of him somewhat askew now, her expression deliberative, lips pursed slightly. "What do you want, Charon?"
He blinks at her, the unexpected question filtering through his mind perhaps a touch more slowly than it should, in his surprise. "...I wish to fulfill the terms of my contract, and the orders you give me."
She straightens, her expression closing off, gaze falling to his upper arm before she nods and vacates the terrace without another word.
He turns to look at the door as it slowly swings closed behind her, the definitive click of the latch seating into place seeming oddly final in the surrounding silence.
Had his answer displeased her somehow? What had prompted the query, to begin with?
Why does she so often stare at him, as if trying to solve a puzzle to which she is missing half the pieces?
He follows her in, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior, then crossing the bedroom and stairwell over to the 'office'—if it could truly be called such—where the pair of mismatched couches and the V.I.P.'s of Goodneighbor are currently holding residence.
She looks up from her perch on the table's edge beside the Mayor's couch-turned-sickbed as he enters the room, her gaze still searching, but calmer now. She returns her attention to her ghoul lover, diligently changing the cold compress in the sleeping man's brow.
Charon resumes his station by the door, folding his arms across his chest and watching her keenly. It is now clear to him that he must be missing a key element in this situation.
He will make it his new mission to discover it, and put it to use.
Oh, hell.
Sometimes, he really wonders why he pulls this kind of shit.
Sure, great, he's got his wish. His woman's back and payin' more attention to him than he ever thought he'd want, to his embarrassment.
But he feels so shitty right now, he can't even enjoy it, really.
In some of his more lucid moments over the past few days, they've talked things over.
She remembers him. All of it. Every detail.
The relief he'd felt once she'd convinced him of that fact very nearly overwhelmed him.
He's happy as hell to have her back.
But there's something wrong, still.
And she's keepin' it all hush-hush.
He don't like it one fuckin' bit.
Top all that off with the fact that she's havin' t'see him like this, all fucked and outta sorts, and he's just in a generally bad mood.
Not even his dreams are cooperating with lettin' him get some good sleep in.
He keeps seein' her dead. Or seein' the lack of recognition in her eyes again. Or watchin' someone else move in on his turf, seducin' her away from him, and he can't do shit to stop it.
It's all a fuckin' nightmare, no matter how ya slice it.
He'd rather be awake n' miserable than trapped in his head asleep right now, but his body don't seem to wanna agree with that opinion, so he keeps on dreamin' of losin' his sunshine.
Fahr was right.
Shana's the best way to hurt him, now.
He can't even try to deny it.